Free Steampunk Holmes: Legacy of the Nautilus by P.C. Martin

range of vision. She was followed a moment later by a very tall woman dressed in deep purple and black, with a detail of black lace around the eyes, and a sweeping train of the most remarkably exquisite black fur. Though she did not so much as glance in our direction as she passed us by, I recognized her instantly, and my heart, I am forced to admit, skipped a beat or two in appreciation of her elegance and beauty.
    Holmes, giving no sign of having noticed either lady, quaffed his third cup with a flick of his wrist, and stood up. “Come along, Finch,” said he in the character of Captain Basil, flinging my coat across to me. I quickly drained my own glass, and donned my coat. My companion, swinging his stick jauntily, tossed a handful of coppers onto the table, and in his brisk seamanly step, strode around the partition that divided us from our neighbors behind my bench. Stopping before the table, he removed his hat and extended his hand to the gentleman who occupied the place.
    “Evening to you, Mr. von Oberon,” said Holmes in his own, ironical voice. “Or shall I call you Pierrot? Mind if my friend and I take a seat at your table?”
    The gentleman's eyes rounded, and he stared at Holmes with an expression of mingled surprise and consternation.
    “I beg your pardon, sirs,” said he in a reproachful voice. “I am afraid I have no idea what you mean. And, agreeable though your company might be on any other occasion, my friends, my lady has only stepped away for a moment, and will doubtless take exception to finding you in her place when she returns.”
    “Oh, you needn't fear for Miss Valentine; I assure you she is in good hands. The best, really, considering...”
    My friend's voice trailed off at the change in the gentleman's expression. He was a dark man, not more than five-and-twenty, with handsome, well-cut features, wide-set eyes, and a peculiar rich tint to the skin; his face, however, had assumed a rigid and chalky quality at Holmes' last statement, his formidable black eyes widened, and his lips compressed in an attempt to regain his composure. This he did, by degrees, as Holmes removed his coat and hat and placidly sat down opposite him.
    “This is absurd,” said the gentleman, with darkening brow. “I must insist that you desist this unmannerly conduct and leave my presence at once.”
    “That is, I am afraid, quite impossible just at present, Mr. von Oberon,” Holmes replied with a little smile. “You see, I very much wished to have a private word with you. I'm not sure you know who I am, but I assure you that if you deal squarely and openly with me, you may find me a less noisome burden than the appointed guardians of the law, which are your only alternative. Then again, why should you trust me, a perfect stranger? You may take my word, Mr. von Oberon, that unless you take me entirely into your confidence and make a clean breast of everything, your fair companion may be held to blame for matters which, one might suppose, do not concern her in the least.”
    “Never!” cried von Oberon, leaping to his feet and glaring at Holmes with a fury that did nothing to move my friend, though I reached instinctively toward the brace of my cannon. Remembering in time the modifications that had been done to my arm's weaponry, I instead felt for my trusty service revolver, which I had slipped into my pocket before leaving the house.
    “Come, come, Mr von Oberon,” said Holmes in his most soothing tone. “You really mustn't excite yourself. Let me tell you again that your best and safest choice lies in taking me into your confidence without delay. That's right. Sit down and compose yourself, or you'll do yourself a mischief.”
    The man, still glaring into Holmes' eyes, sat down slowly.
    “Who are you?” he asked softly. “And where is Victoria?”
    “My name,” said my companion, “is Sherlock Holmes. Miss Valentine is, at present, in the company of my sister. I assure you that Mycroft is an excellent